


Unburdened

by hubblegleeflower



Category: Armie Hammer - Fandom, Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Timothée Chalamet - Fandom
Genre: Armie likes knots, Armie x Timmy, BDSM, Charmie, M/M, RPF, RPS - Freeform, Shibari
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 23:08:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13421586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hubblegleeflower/pseuds/hubblegleeflower
Summary: Timmy finds Armie's Twitter likes and has a few questions. But Timmy always has questions. It doesn't mean anything. Armie will answer his questions, and they'll carry on with their press tour, and no one will have to admit anything they're not ready to admit. Armie's got this.





	Unburdened

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so RPF disclaimer:
> 
> I do not know Armie Hammer or Timothée Chalamet. I am not privy to even their most public thoughts, except the ones they've uttered on videos that then get reblogged on Tumblr. I AM MAKING THIS UP. This has nothing to do with either of these actors. Rather, this is an AU where there are two fictional characters with the same names (go figure) who happen to have acted together in a movie very like Call Me By Your Name and then, by coincidence, also went on press tours together. One of them once posted a bunch of rope bondage Likes on Twitter. Does this sound like something in the real universe? Really? Huh. Crazy old world.

“Timmy?”

“Jesus!” Armie watches as first Timmy’s ears and then the rest of his face turn a deep crimson. “Shit, Armie, I didn’t see you.”

They’re smack at the height of the press junkets, interviews and photoshoots and Q&A sessions and screenings, and they’ve been going for days. Today they have a rare afternoon off, before they’re due on another talk show, and they’re tired enough that they haven’t opted to head out for a coffee or a late lunch. After taping this morning, they both grabbed a handful of snacks from the break table at the studio and headed straight back to the hotel.

They stay together; neither of them questions this anymore. There’s a second room, adjoining, where Timmy sleeps, but if they have chillout time during the day they spend it in Armie’s room, which is always a suite. Today they stumbled in the door and Timmy immediately flopped down full-length on the sofa, already scrolling through his phone. Armie grunted at him and lurched right through to the bedroom, where he sprawled, fully clothed, onto the bed. He dozed off more or less immediately.

Now he’s rested, at least a little, and he’s rolled out of bed, and he doesn’t think he was particularly stealthy about it, but from the way Timmy jumped, obviously he’s caught him by surprise. Or feeling guilty...

Still flushed red, Timmy flips on the hotel sofa, and puts his phone down with a _thunk_ on the table, face down. Sits up. “You’re sneaky for such a huge guy.”

Armie’s eyes narrow. This is Timmy aiming for _casual,_ aiming for _cool,_ aiming to deceive, which he hardly ever does, and it isn’t working. The kid can act, but he can’t lie. _We’ll see about that._

“Whatcha got there?” He reaches for Timmy’s phone, swipes it off the table.

Tim leaps to his feet and snatches at it, misses, snatches again. “Nothing, give it back!”

There really is no contest. Armie easily holds the phone up and behind him, and keeps it out of Timmy’s reach while the boy flails and grabs at it uselessly, tripping over the coffee table. He shoulders Timmy out of the way so he can look at the screen, which Timmy didn’t have time to lock, scrolling up a little to see what—

_Oh._

He should have unfollowed those Twitters. Of course he should have, which is why he hadn’t. He has nothing to be ashamed of. Fuck them all. Still, this is Timmy. He’d prefer to explain first.

So he dodges. _Play it cool, Armie._ Laugh it off. “Whoa, kid, I didn’t know you were into this! At your age! You make out with a guy and you think you know him. What would your mother say?”

Tim’s color doesn’t fade, but he manages to snatch the phone back and shove it into his pocket. “Shut up, asshole. Don’t try to put this on me. You wanna take one guess where I found that link?”

Of course Armie already knows, but he’s not admitting anything. “Dunno. Is it Luca’s? Must be.”

Timmy laughs at that, as he’s supposed to. The smile lingers on his face as he lowers his eyes—those huge, soulful eyes—and shrugs awkwardly, as he always does when on the receiving end of Armie’s teasing. Perhaps the distraction will work this time.

But then his smile fades, and he doesn’t raise his eyes. A small frown appears, the smallest crease between his eyes. His discomfort shows in every line of his body. “Sorry, sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

 _Shit_. He’s done it again. “Hey. Hey, Timmy…”

Timmy shifts, avoids the hand Armie has stretched towards his shoulder. “It’s fine.”

 _Fuck_. “Don’t give me that.”

“No, it is. You don’t have to tell me everything. Or anything.” He shrugs again, and Armie finds it physically painful. Timmy says, “It’s none of my business. Sorry.” Anyone else, saying all this, would be deliberate, manipulative, would be using guilt to try to get...something. Not Timmy; he means it. He still believes he had no right to Armie, to his confessions, to his intimacy. He’s wrong, and it’s Armie’s fault.

“I do have to,” he says. “We said no secrets.”

***

_They did say that. Ages ago, on location, early on in the filming, after they had kissed, but before...anything else happened. They’d been rehearsing, one of the earlier scenes, but they were done, and were heading over to get their bikes and head down to the river. Armie said something—he couldn’t remember what, later; it wasn’t important at all—and Timmy gave a small smile and said, “And there it goes.”_

_Armie paused, glanced at him. “What? There what goes?”_

_Timmy stopped walking, and his voice was tight. “You. Your...walls.”_

_Armie snorted, with all the derision he could pull off. “My walls?”_

_Timmy winced a little, but didn’t back down. Explained: “When we’re filming, or when we’re rehearsing, you’re so...open. Clear water, all the way down.”_

_Armie couldn’t think of anyone else who would ever describe him that way, but he thought of the intimacy that Luca had pulled from him, from both of them, and he couldn’t really argue. “Okay, well, good, I guess.” Where was Timmy going with this? “So?”_

_“So, but, usually within a few minutes, after we’re done, you close right up. I can almost hear the steel doors clanging shut. You make a joke, usually, and—”_

_“And we’re Timmy and Armie again, and not Elio and Oliver.”_

_“Yeah.” He paused for a moment. “No. It’s more than that. I know we’re not, in the scenes...I get it— I’m an actor too, you know, even if I’m not a big superstar like you.” That grin was never too far away, Armie was learning. He snorted again, but Timmy continued. “Being Elio and Oliver, though, is a big deal. It’s different. It’s…”_

_“Important.”_

_“Yeah.” Timmy’s smile turned grateful. “And we’re doing it together, you know? It ought to bring Timmy and Armie closer together. But…” He shrugged. “But it’s like you don’t want it to. Like you’re not...like you’re determined not to let it.”_

_Armie opened his mouth to answer then, but closed it again. He could feel the frown settling between his eyes as he tried to make sense of what Timmy was saying. He’d never met anyone who challenged him like this kid did, and maybe, yes, he was trying to avoid it. Timmy just being Timmy raised questions Armie wasn’t sure he was ready to answer; Timmy also being Elio just made it worse._

_Timmy couldn’t wait out the silence. He said, “And that’s...I guess that’s okay. I get it. You’ve been doing this job a long time, and we all have our ways of coping, right? Of keeping something separate, of...protecting ourselves. Look, it’s stupid, sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up. I mean, you’re entitled to—we work together. That’s it. I just thought...but look, forget it.” Timmy, not looking up, made to walk around Armie and grab his bike, but—_

_“Wait, Timmy.” Armie took his shoulder. He didn’t know what he wanted to say yet, but he knew he wasn’t ready for Timmy to walk away, not like that._

_He hadn’t known the kid for that long but he could feel their connection sparking at every moment, stronger every day. “Protecting ourselves,” Timmy had said, and yeah, Armie guessed he was. But this kid had these wide, ancient eyes that could see straight into Armie like none of his defenses even existed—clear water, all the way down—and Armie didn’t want to hide anymore. Not when there was someone so ready to...to see him._

_And he was blowing him off, like an asshole, and making him walk away, apologizing for expecting to be close._

_He looked at where his hand was closed around Timmy’s arm, fingers on flesh, connected._

_He took a breath. “It’s—it isn’t deliberate.” More like the habit of a lifetime, of people not really wanting to know who he was. “I do it—you’re right, I do it. But I do it without thinking. Just. Nipping it in the bud, you know?”_

_And incredulous look, twisted lip and knit brow. “Nipping_ what _?”_

_“The—” Armie clamped his mouth shut. But wasn’t he being honest? “The inevitable, I guess.” He knew he was shrugging, he knew his discomfort was screaming out of his face, and out of his body. He knew what Tim’s next question would be:_

_“Inevitable what?”_

_“Yeah. I don’t know.” Shit. “I do know. Mostly that’s not what people want from me. Honesty. And really, you know, fuck ‘em. They don’t want the real me anyway, so why should I let them see it? It’s like I want to, you know, reassure them that they’re not going to get stuck with it. Not going to be...I dunno. Burdened.”_

_Timmy’s frown was gone but his jaw was slack and his eyes were sad. “Burdened.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“With your real self.”_

_Shit. “Yeah.”_

_Armie couldn't have said, later, how he would have expected Timmy to respond to that—he felt—massive admission, but certainly not the bark of manic, incredulous laughter._

_“You are such an idiot.” Timmy, still chuckling, brought his hand up to cover Armie's for a moment, gave it two hard pats, and moved away, reaching for the handlebars of his bike and heaving it away from the wall. Armie watched in confusion as Timmy mounted his bike and balanced on the balls of his feet, grinning to himself the whole time. Armie waited for him to say something else, but Timmy only looked at him expectantly._

_“You coming or not?”_

_Armie blinked. “Um. Yeah. But um.” Thrown off balance again. It was almost (or precisely) as if Timothée enjoyed watching Armie sweat._

_Sure enough, Timmy raised his eyebrows inquiringly, large eyes dancing, and didn’t help him out at all._

_What a little shit, watching him stew. Now that Timmy had called him out, though, he found he didn’t want to be let off the hook. He said, “We done talking?”_

_“If you're going to be a dumbass.”_

_“Oh, I'm a dumbass now? Thought I was an idiot.”_

_“That too. Both. All.”_

_“And why's that.”_

_Timmy looked at him then, straight in his face, and although he'd been all mockery and mischief the moment before, now he was serious, his eyes gone still and fathomless. Armie met his gaze and felt flayed open and laid bare, and for a moment all his impulses screamed at him to make a joke and walk away. He did neither, pinned by Timmy's all-seeing gaze._

_It couldn't have lasted more than a few seconds, a few seconds longer than people usually held each other's eye. Timmy's sense of timing was impeccable, though, and he let another beat go by before he softened his expression and almost smiled._

_“You're an idiot,” he said, “If you think for a second that I don’t want anything you could show me.” He paused, watching Armie's face for understanding. “You hear me? Burden me, all right?”_

_“You don't …” Armie's voice was choked. “You don't know what you're asking.”_

_“Fuck you, Hammer.” There was no bite in Timmy's voice. “You want to hide the whole time, fine. I'll drop it.” He pushed off, letting his bike roll down the bank towards the track._

_Armie's window was closing. Before he could think about it, he called quickly, “All right, yes, you win.”_

_Timmy stopped, but didn't turn around. Waiting._

_“No more secrets. That's what I'll offer. No more hiding.”_

_When he turned, his whole face was sunshine. Far from burdened, he looked as if Armie had offered him a beautiful gift._

_***_

That was months ago, coming up a year, and it’s now second nature for Armie to be open with Timmy—he can’t believe how open. And to be open _about_ Timmy to anyone who asks. So this is...a regression. For nothing, really. Just a knee-jerk reaction to him seeing Armie’s bondage preferences on Twitter. Armie sees the sad resignation on Timmy’s face and wants nothing more than to fix this. _You don’t have to tell me anything._ When Armie, usually, wants to tell him everything.

Armie says, “Remember? I promised. So I do have to.” Again the bony shrug. _This is too much drama, now._ Just this side of maudlin. _Cut him off._ “Anyway, I want to.” Armie gave a laugh, a puff of air. “Timmy, it’s fucking _Twitter._ It’s not like you picked the lock on my diary. I don’t mind if you ask.”

And then the eyes come up, and doesn’t he forget every time, _every_ time, the way those eyes can just look into his soul, clear water, no sense in hiding, there they are. Bypassing all his walls and looking straight at him. All the way down.

“Okay,” Timmy says, “Would you show me?”

 _Bam._ But you don’t find reasonable men at tops of mountains. Armie blows out a breath and says, “Okay.”

***

And _oh god_ , yes, Armie knows this is a bad idea. The kid’s soul is a thousand years old but his body is 21 and so is his brain, and Armie _knows_ this is a bad idea, but Timmy looked at him and said, _show me,_ and in that moment Armie could see it, but only in his mind’s eye, and it was fucking beautiful and now he _has_ to see it, just has to, fuck the consequences, and Elizabeth would say this was his frontal lobe problem kicking in again, and she’d be right, but there is Timmy, and Armie loves giving Timmy what he wants, and Timmy wants to be shown.

Timmy is standing, and his clothes are on. They’ve made out naked but that was for the camera and it’s been a long time and anyway, this is...different. Armie won’t admit it, but he’s flustered. He knows he shouldn’t be tying Timmy up, not like this, not without a long discussion, negotiations, definition of terms, but that’s if he was going to play a scene, and he isn’t, not really, he’s just...giving a demonstration. So he hasn’t mentioned clothes, and Timmy is standing. So it’s fine; he’ll do it light, so it’s hardly even bondage.

Armie has the rope in his hands. He’s pulled it from the bottom of his suitcase with a glare at Timothée, daring him to comment, but Timmy’s quite single-minded when he’s onto something new, so with the barest hint of a smirk, he let it slide.

Now Armie twists the cord back and forth around Tim’s thin arms, over his t-shirt, it’s just decoration, really, crisscrossing round each arm. For a moment he considers not even joining his wrists; this is a demonstration, after all, and Timmy can see what it looks like, that’s all he wanted. It should be enough.

But when he stops, when he pulls the last knot snug around Tim’s bony wrist, without joining them, Timmy looked up from Armie’s hands with a question in his eyes, a question and maybe a challenge, so Armie makes the final set of hitches that bring Timmy’s long hands together, palm to palm. _Like a goddamn angel,_ he thinks, and there’s equal parts awe and bitterness behind it.

He gives a final tug, tucks away the slack, and steps back. He takes a moment to be satisfied with the job he’s done; the design is even and symmetrical, and the rope cradles Tim’s thin limbs lovingly. A single strand stretches across the protruding shoulder blades, and another two pass from Timmy’s hands over each of his shoulders to loop through the one on his back and keep his hands at chest height. Simple, yes, basic, yes, but elegant and well executed.

And beautiful. _But that’s beside the point right now._

Timmy squirms a little in his bonds, stretching to test the hold, feeling where the interlaced ropes dig into the sparse flesh of his shoulders, wriggling his body and turning around in a circle. He looks back up at Armie and grins.

“Pretty neat!” he says. And then he asks, “What happens next?”

Armie’s face flushes, red and hot, and then he curses himself for where his mind has leaped. _That’s not what he means._ Even though he’s asked Armie to tie him up, _what happens next_ is not what he’s asking for.

It’s curiosity, purely. Timmy has found something new to learn, and he wants to know, like he wants to know about how Liszt would play Bach and whether all the same nouns are feminine in Italian as in French, and how many other languages have a _cock_ cognate in their word for apricots. Like he wants to know everything, as soon as he discovers that there’s something there to learn.

These ropes are no different. Timmy has discovered that there’s something to know about ropes, and wants to learn. And now that he’s in the ropes, he wants to know what happens next.

Armie has three decades of experience learning to hide himself, and blushing like a kid ought to be beneath him. On the other hand, Timmy has seen him, seen all of him, and he has agreed to lower his defenses. So perhaps it’s all right that he can feel the heat suffusing his face.

“What happens next is I untie you and we go get take out.”

He reaches for the knots, but Timmy slide-shimmies out of his reach and laughs in his face. “Not so fast, big man. I’m pretty sure take out doesn’t usually come into it.”

“Afterwards, maybe. Come on, Tim. Let me get those off you.” He reaches again, but Timmy dodges, easily.

“No, I’m serious! I want to know!” He moves so that the suite’s coffee table lies between them. “Come one. I can’t move my arms, okay. So now, what?”

“Now nothing.” He makes another grab, and misses. “Christ, I should have done your legs, too.”

Timmy keeps the table between them. His voice is young, beseeching. “Armie, come _on_. I really want to know. What comes next, come on. Would you add more ropes? Do my legs?” He steps out into the middle of the carpet. “Do I—oh!” His eyes go wide and pleased. _Discovery._

And then—

And then he _kneels._

 _Ohgodohgodohgod_. “Timmy, no, don’t, get up—” But there is Timmy, on his knees, hands pressed together, with black ropes crisscrossed up his arms and around his shoulders, eyes dancing, lips still parted in a cheeky smile. Completely delighted and unaware.

 _Or is he?_ Armie is never sure, with Timmy. He finds it hard to credit that anyone could really be that guileless, but Armie learned guile at such an early age, he doesn’t trust his instincts on this. In any case, Timmy is unlike anyone he’s ever known, in every way. He might really not know.

“Well?” Timmy doesn’t let things go. “Isn’t this...usual?” He tilts his head inquiringly, and his bound shoulders shrug. No one should be able to look that casual while bound in ropes.

“It is, but—”

“And wouldn’t there be more ropes? Would it be only ropes? What about cuffs? Or blindfolds? Or—what do you call those things with the straps and the rubber balls…?”

“Ball gags,” Armie says weakly.

“Yeah, those. I’m tryna remember what else I’ve seen. What about—?”

“Could you, just, please, could you stop?” This is—Armie just can’t. He can’t say why, but this is wrong. Timmy’s treating it like a game, like a novelty, and he’s on his knees and wearing Armie’s ropes— _god._

Timmy seems to notice. “Sorry, I—did I say something...?”

“No, it’s—It’s just. This is pretty...intense.” _Tell the truth._ “Intimate.”

“It is?” Timmy frowns. “Really? But I’m hardly tied up at all. I’m in jeans and a t-shirt. It’s not like it’s...it’s not like it’s _sexual_.” He thinks for a moment. “Is it?”

And it strikes Armie as the most egregious irony, that Timmy always looks to Armie for guidance in these matters, during filming and in every other way, when Armie has _no idea_ what is what in this new self he’s unearthed. He shrugs painfully, at a loss for words.

Timmy’s teasing smile is gone now, and his face is soft with concern. He rocks once, tucks his toes under, and rises easily to his feet, and it’s already better. Armie lets out a breath.

After a moment, Timmy gives a familiar half-smile, and asks, “You okay?”

Armie smiles too, at the floor. “Me okay.”

“Too curious?”

“Nah, it’s good. It’s fine. I just wasn’t...It was all out of context, and I should have...I should have established a few things beforehand. I just—”

“Like a safeword?” Timmy cuts in, all eagerness again.

 _This kid._ “Ah, so this isn’t a closed book for you after all. Yeah, like a safeword. Among other things.”

Timmy looks him in the eye, no trace of his earlier innocence. He says, “I wouldn’t have used it.”

“ _Jesus,_ Timmy.” Armie drags a hand over his face. “I might have.” _If I had half a brain._

Timmy thinks about that, turning to the window, looking pensive. Completely unconcerned that he is _still tied up._ Still under Armie’s control, in theory. (In practice, not so much.)

But then, Timmy is never in a power struggle. He gives over control without a qualm, to anyone who can maybe teach him something. He’ll let anyone lead, and see where it goes. He has nothing to prove to anyone. Nothing. So Timmy being in ropes is just... _Timmy_ , but in ropes.

He barks a short laugh. This is nothing like what he thought it would be.

“What?” Timmy asks, looking at him, but Armie just gives his head a shake. Now, though, at last, he does reach over and start to unwind the cords from around Timmy’s wrists. “Anyway,” he says, deftly loosening the hitch over his shoulders, “For some people this can be a turn on, both ways, the dominance and the, the, the surrender.”

“Yeah?” He frowns, squidges up his mouth a little like he does when he’s chewing on a new idea. “So…both people have a job, right? The person getting tied up has to, to, like, give over control, and take whatever is being dealt.”

Next comes the knot binding his hands together. “With lots of discussion beforehand,” says Armie, prying a strand loose, “But basically, yes.”

Timmy flexes his fingers, but otherwise waits patiently. He asks, “And the person doing the tying up, what’s their job?”

“To give it to them.” _Hah._ As if it was ever that simple.

At his choice of words, Timmy gives a ribald laugh. “Yeah, I figured, but—”

 _Sass._ No more than he expects. But: “No, I mean, to give them…” He pauses, in his words and in his work.

“Give them what?”

“Whatever they need.” He gives a shrug and starts his fingers moving again. With several swift tugs, he unwinds the twined cords around Timmy’s left arm, and crosses to his other side to begin the same process.

“What they’ve asked for, you mean?”

Good question. “Sometimes.” Timmy looks at him. “Sometimes it’s more...what they need. Like, whatever they need.”

“What they need that they haven’t asked for. How would you know?”

Armie laughs shortly. “Usually I don’t.” He draws the last long strand out of its loop behind Timmy’s back. “You’d need to know someone really well.” He begins to coil the rope, one neat loop on top of another. He likes this part. It’s tidy. A little hypnotic. Without thinking, he adds, “And it only works on people who—” before he stops himself.

Timmy, who’s been watching him undo his knots without comment, asks swiftly, “Who what?”

He laughs again, at how many ways he could have ended that sentence, and how all of them are something of a confession. He’s caught himself, though, and thinks he may actually get through this conversation without exposing himself too terribly. So he laughs, and says, “Well, first of all, who don’t just let themselves be tied up out of curiosity, and get on their knees at the drop of a hat, for any old asshole who happens to be there…”

And then: “I wouldn’t do that for anyone else,” Timmy says offhandedly. “That was just for you.”

_Wham._

Because Timmy always tells the truth. He doesn’t need the ropes to reveal it.

Armie realizes he is staring, that the rope is hanging limp in his hands, and he has let too much time pass without speaking. “Well.” _Good, Armie._ “Um. Thanks. Good.”

***

What the hell. _What are you going to do about it, huh?_ He should have seen this coming. _You did._ Yeah, but he should have seen this coming and _stopped it._

Timmy in ropes, on his knees, mouth open, eyes smiling. Bright, engaged, _interested,_ and utterly unafraid. Armie cannot imagine being that...unaffected. Being tied up, kneeling, exposed, helpless...and not minding.

Now, though, when he sees Timmy, or even thinks about him, he sees him wound in ropes over his over-worn t-shirt, kneeling, staring up at him with his head slightly tilted, eyes intense. Hiding nothing, in a way that Armie can only manage when he tries as hard as he can, and usually not even then.

A day goes by. They have a photo shoot in the morning, then lunch and a brief break, and back-to-back interviews until 7. This press junket is exhausting, but Armie’s had worse, and getting to do it alongside Timmy, for whom this level of attention and focus is all so _new_ (which means, for Timmy, _interesting_ and _exciting_ ) makes it bearable.

Actually being able to answer the questions honestly, for once, is also strange and wonderful. How much do they actually believe what he tells them? About Luca, about Timmy, about how much he loves them both, about the kissing, making out with Timmy, how easy it was, how much he enjoyed it. His forthright honesty—when he looks as straight as he does—is like its own kind of camouflage. He can admit everything openly, repeatedly, emphatically, and still plausibly deny it all, should he ever wish to. Does it still count as honesty? Who knows anymore.

Who knows if he’s being honest with his friend. Who knows if he’s even being honest with himself.

***

The nonstop schedule gives him an excuse—exhaustion—for being distracted. When he zones out, which is often, his eyes drift to Timmy every time. When he catches himself, he drags his attention back to the interviewer and, for the next several minutes, pinions them with his focus, delivers soundbite after soundbite, tells his stories with implacable bonhomie until the next question that gets directed specifically at Timmy, and his attention settles back in that direction.

Timmy doesn't say anything at first, but the third time he intercepts Armie's gaze, Armie knows he's done for. Timmy will ask, and he will have to answer.

Sure enough, as soon as they have a two-minute pause, he comes to find him in the break room. Armie, true to his promise, does not try to elude him, and if he's completely silent, it's only because he still doesn’t know what to say.

Timmy waits there for a little, giving Armie time to speak, if he's going to.

Armie wants to. He sees Timmy's open face in his mind, giving without even being asked. Bound in ropes. He can’t stop seeing it, and wants to somehow let Timmy know. He pours his coffee and grabs a cookie and wishes he could get some thoughts together.

Timmy says, “Are you going to hold it against me?”

Armie can’t help it. He laughs, as Timmy intended him to. “Shut up, punk.”

Timmy laughs back. “That’s better. You’ve looked pretty damn serious all day. I was almost worried about you.”

“Worried? Why?” With an effort, he meets Timmy’s eye.

“You’ve been quiet ever since you tied me up yesterday.”

 _Christ._ “Say it a little louder.”

Timmy ignores that. “And last night during the interview, you were—”

“Genial. Charming. Witty.” Well, he was. He made sure of that.

Timmy makes a face. “Yeah.”

“That’s my job.”

Timmy’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Yeah.”

Armie isn’t fooling him at all, but he doesn’t have to acknowledge that. He swallows  some coffee and takes a bite of a cookie. “Nah, don’t worry,” he says at last, through his mouthful, “I’m good. You know me.”

Timmy smiles, but it’s a Timmy smile with lots of layers. He says, “I sometimes think so.”

They’re called back to the panel just then, which is fine because Armie has no idea how to respond. He has succeeded in telling Timmy exactly nothing, when he wants to tell him everything, and he doesn’t know, at all, what to do about it.

***

Until suddenly he does.

It comes to him after the thousandth (or hundred thousandth) time he pictures Timmy, open hearted, on his knees, looking at him wide-eyed and saying, _only for you_ , and feels his body stir. He doesn’t mind that, he and Timmy have thought about bodies, about stirrings, about love, and talked about it. They have never done more than talk, not without cameras and people in the room with them, but the talk has always come with long silences and long looks, and licked lips, and breathing that is just a little too fast.

These stirrings are nothing to be ashamed of. He has used them before, for inspiration when he’s horny and lonely. He’d like to try to focus on that open Timmy, for those purposes, open and kneeling and fucking perfect, only every time he tries, he sees instead a sad—was it sad?—smile, and hears _I sometimes think so._

Armie has never trusted anyone like he trusts Timmy. He’s even gotten over how ridiculous it is, how he is bigger and stronger and older and more experienced and yet finds himself feeling so safe in the hands of this...again, the word _child_ keeps presenting itself (and keeps being wrong).

But look, Timmy just wore the ropes, just like that, because he has absolutely nothing to hide. Armie always tops, because he doesn’t want the ropes to expose him; Timmy is exposed without even needing the ropes. Timmy is brave, and honest. Armie is afraid, and a liar.

And Timmy knows this: _I sometimes think so._ He knows how well Armie hides.

***

It’s been another day of nonstop talk, and Armie knows this is his job, and god knows he can talk, he can go on forever, but today it’s so... _much_ , and if Timmy weren’t there, with his, his _face_ , and his endless skinny arms and his effortless honesty, this would be _impossible._

Armie doesn’t know what the question is, but Timmy says, “Armie. Such a great dance partner, you know? I knew I was in safe hands. I knew I could trust him. There wasn’t a moment when I didn’t feel safe.”

It’s that easy for Timmy. Trust, safety. Given once and never revoked. Meanwhile Armie has to decide to trust, over and over again, and is always looking for ways to hold something back. He can’t come to grips with how much honesty is too much. Whereas Timmy would never even ask himself a question like that. He is sick with desire for the open face and the gentle surrender and the forthright, inconceivable but utterly true declaration, that it was _only for you,_ only for him. Because it was, Timmy meant that, means that, and whatever Armie wants to read into it, Timmy means it all, so simply, and here is Armie agonizing over every little thing and tying himself up in knots—

Ah. There it is.

***

His chance comes the next day. They have separate photo shoots in the morning and then nothing until the banquet at eight. That should be...more than enough time.

Timmy’s been allowing him space. He hasn’t wanted it, but he knows why Timmy thinks he needs it. He hates the hesitation in Timmy’s step as he passes the door to Armie’s suite, hates the uncertain, sidelong glance. Hates that Timmy feels unsure of his welcome, hates that he doesn’t even ask, but just keeps walking.

Now, though, he knows what to do about it. He calls after him, “Hey Sweet Tea,” and Timmy pauses at his door, his key card out. “Yeah?”

“Give me twenty minutes, and then come through and see me. I, uh, I have something for you. Something to show you.”

A long look, a nod, and then he disappears into his room. Armie takes a breath, then enters his own room. He has work to do.

***

“Armie? You decent? Hey, I was—” Timmy’s head appears around the edge of the door and he keeps talking for a moment as his eyes sweep the room, and settle on Armie. His words trail off.

Another boy his age, in Timmy’s place, might have started firing off questions, or responded with emotion, maybe even hostility. Armie knows what he’s risking, here. Timmy has not agreed to this, and would be in his rights to object. To be angry. To leave the room, and never come back.

Timmy, though, doesn’t do any of that. (The risk, admittedly, was small.) He lets his gaze settle on Armie, lets his eyes travel over his face, and his body, and then his face again. He takes his time; he’s moved into a state Armie has seen many times, but not often since Crema. A state of intense observation, where he takes everything in, and reveals nothing.

He reveals nothing now, looking at Armie, but he’s been gazing for plenty long enough to have taken in the most relevant detail: the ropes.

Armie has tied himself up. He’s standing, and clothed, but definitely bound. Self-bondage is something Armie (like many rope lovers before him) became adept at years ago, simply for the very practical need to learn how to do it before inflicting it on anyone else. Generally, though, one’s legs and ankles would get more attention than one’s arms and wrists, for obvious reasons.

This time, though, Armie has felt the need to replicate Timmy’s experience as closely as possible, so his legs are free. His arms are wrapped in a variation of the interwoven strands he performed on Timmy. Less elegant, for having to be finished off with his teeth, but just as effective. And this time there are scissors within reach, a nod (at last) to safety and sanity.

He waits.

Timmy takes his time. He doesn’t—thank goodness—begin to pepper Armie with questions about how he managed to tie himself up like this, and bypass—without realizing?—the deeper meaning. Nor does he turn nervous or twitchy, stammering out his reaction while staying glued to the doorway. Instead he just _looks_. Armie cannot guess how much he’ll understand about this, how much awkward explanation will be needed. How desperately he’ll wish he hadn’t been this stupid and impulsive, by the time he’s free again.

Heartbeat by heartbeat, the silence swells and blossoms in the room. Armie straightens his shoulders, resolved to let Timmy look his fill, resolved to let him decide the next move. It is difficult to control his body, bound though he is; difficult not to bounce on the balls of his feet, not to let his eyes dart between ceiling, floor, window, door. Not to swallow around the tight lump of nerves in his throat. Armie knows stubbornness, though, knows it can take the place of confidence when confidence is lacking, so he keeps his body still.

Timmy’s move, when it comes, sails past all need for explanation. He sits on the edge of the sofa, breathes a long, slow breath, and says, “Thank you.” When Armie’s eyes widen, he says, also, by way of explanation, “I said I wanted all of it, right? To be burdened with everything. And I think,” he adds, at Armie’s startled nod, “I think this is your everything.”

Now Armie does swallow, to somehow get his voice to work so he can say, “Not quite everything.”

He takes a deep breath, and kneels.

***

Armie can see them now, as though they were a tableau on a stage, the lights just rising on their scene. Because it _is_ a scene, this time. He has offered and Timmy has accepted— _thank you—_ so they’re in it now, they’ve both consented.

There still hasn’t been anything like negotiations, but Timmy has fixed him with his steady, heavy-eyed gaze and hasn’t looked away and Armie feels like there’s not much more that needs saying. His feelings twine in corded strands, deep in his chest, the risk and the terror wound around with a single bright thread of _safety_ ; Timmy, child though he so often seems, will know what he needs. No, there’s nothing else that needs to be said.

Armie waits for Timmy to begin, but Timmy doesn’t move towards him. He stays where he is, on the edge of the sofa, and gazes at him, not speaking.

It’s maddening. Armie has prepared himself for almost anything. Given the content of Timmy’s questions— _ball gags!—_ there was no knowing what he would think to try, with Armie bound in ropes and kneeling for him. Armie trusts him, of course he does, and he wouldn’t do this for anyone else, only for Timmy, but the seconds tick by—must be minutes by now—and still Timmy does not move.

Doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything, for a long, long time, and doesn’t approach. Just looks.

Those _eyes._ Timmy looks and looks, and his eyes are clear and unwavering. Clear, still water—all the way down—and yet somehow unfathomable at the same time. He is calm, or he seems calm, and his breathing is steady. He is not casting about for what to do or say; Armie knows him to be capable of extraordinary self-possession, despite his gangly goofiness in interviews, but he would not have expected him to take this so completely in his stride. He’s not unsure, he’s not planning his next (first) move. He’s just looking at Armie, looking at _all_ of Armie.

It’s harder than anything Armie could have imagined.

His imagination in this area is not lacking, either. He knows well the array of personal advantages that have always made it possible for him to become quite experienced at whatever kind of sex he’s wanted to pursue. This, though, is harder than any mental task or challenge he’s ever devised for anyone whose focus is on non-physical fortitude, and harder than a beating or a roughing up, such as he’s dished out himself often enough in his younger days.

He’s just so...visible. Wholly, appallingly, completely. Like dancing, when everyone can see him, when he’s the tallest person there with nowhere to hide. Like having to do it alone, with no music, and everyone watching.

Only here it’s just Timmy who can see him, but Timmy can see _all_ of him, despite his being fully clothed.

Armie takes a steadying breath that completely fails to steady him, and all at once he can’t stand the silence. “You can touch me, you know.”

Timmy frowns slightly, but doesn’t respond.

“Or you can talk,” Armie rushes on. “Ask me questions. Anything. You can...you can even undress me if you want, as much as you can, with the ropes. I wore buttons.”

The frown deepens and there is a flash of something in his eyes. _Displeasure._

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. The cold dread creeps down his throat and coils in a tight ball in his chest. He hadn’t thought he’d gone under at all, but the thought that he’s displeased Timmy already, without even having started, hardly, makes something shrivel inside of him. He’s supposed to be the experienced one, and here he is, doing everything all wrong. All wrong, and everyone can see him.

Everyone is Timmy, Timmy is everyone, and Timmy can see him, kneeling here, doing this all wrong, fucking it up as usual, biting off more than he can chew, like always, but does that ever stop him from opening up his big mouth, ever, even once? And how fucking stupid was it, anyway, to spring this on Timmy with no discussion, what a great goddamn idea _that_ was, tie yourself up and get on your knees and expect this kid, this, this, this _little boy_ , to know what to do, to somehow know what he needed, and all Timmy can do is sit there, and look at him, and _look_ at him, and he’s not moving, and he’s not speaking, and he’s not touching him, and god, Armie wants him to, wants him to touch, oh god, oh god, why is he only just realizing how much he _wants_ this, _Christ_ , he is so fucking irresponsible, he should stop, he should stop, he _wants_ to stop, he wants to _hide..._

And suddenly, miraculously, just before Armie dissolves completely into anger and shame and self-recrimination, Timmy speaks:

“Your safeword,” Timmy says, “is _Crema._ ”

Armie’s breath rushes back into his lungs, and out again, and the roar in his mind falls silent. He goes to answer, finds he cannot easily engage his voice, and nods instead.

Timmy goes on. “Do you want to use it now?”

 _No_. A moment ago all he wanted was a way out but Timmy has let him know that he’s here and that he’s got this, he’s got Armie, and Armie wants nothing more than for Timmy to, to have him. Just like this. He’s seen subs in this state before and it occurs to him that he ought to find it worrying, but he meets those dark-fringed eyes and dismisses the thought. He wanted this. He wants this. His head shakes, a tiny movement, but it keeps on shaking. No, he doesn’t want Timmy to stop. He’ll take whatever Timmy chooses to give. Anything or nothing. Timmy’s got him.

“No.” And now Timmy does rise, and comes to stand next to Armie.

Armie is tall; there’s never been any way to deny it. Timmy is also tall, but just regular tall, not visible-head-and-shoulders-above-everyone-in-the-room tall. Armie is used to being taller than tall people, and absolutely towering over small ones; he sees others from above. It’s been that way since he was fifteen, and he’s used to it.

Now, though, with Timmy standing and Armie kneeling, it’s Timmy who towers over Armie. To look him in the face, he would have to tilt his head way back, and rest his body back on his heels. He finds he wants a bit more distance, would back up half a pace if he were standing, just to fit Timothée more easily into his field of vision without having to crane his neck too badly. As it is, the twist and tilt of his head is already uncomfortable. When Timmy takes one more half-step into his space, it becomes too awkward, and he stops trying, instead letting his neck relax and his eyes rest on the carpet a few feet in front of him.

Immediately, he feels better. _Eyes down_. Easy, almost, now, to abdicate.

“Good,” says Timmy softly. Has he done this on purpose, to make him drop his eyes? It wouldn’t be the first time Timmy has shown skill in an area he has no business knowing anything about. _Good,_ he said, and Armie feels a simple glow of pride.

The next moment, Timmy’s hand strokes through his hair, and he barely contains his startled jerk. The hand settles, heavy and warm, on the top of his head, grounding him through the several seconds it takes for him to breathe himself back to calm. At last, he manages two long, steady breaths, followed by a deep sigh, and he is back to where he was.

Timmy says, “Good,” again, and pets his hair, and again Armie glows a little.

It’s easy, now, to kneel on the carpet while Timmy strokes his hair, easy to close his eyes and tilt his head against the movement of those fingers. Timmy brings his other hand up to Armie’s head and his fingers work and work against his scalp. They scratch lightly over his crown and down to the muscles at the base of his skull, scratch and massage so that Armie’s head lolls forward and his breath comes out in a long sigh. Timmy’s fingers move along the sides of his head to his temples, and rub circles there as well. Across his forehead and along his eyebrows, tapping or circling, so, so gentle. With every breath he takes, Armie sinks deeper, he feels, into the earth, knelt as he is on the nondescript carpet of his hotel suite, sinks through the floor, sits heavier on his heels; every breath carries out of him tension he didn’t know he was holding onto. The only sensation is Timmy’s hypnotic touch, his thin fingers travelling over Armie’s face and through his hair. _What he needs, but doesn’t know to ask for._

The voice begins so softly, and Armie is already so entranced, that it takes him some seconds to even register that Timmy has started speaking.

 _Speaking_ is an overstatement. At first, the words come almost silently, no voice, hardly any air, and Armie can’t say how long they’ve been coming by the time he notices, and strains to hear.

“...how great you’re doing. I didn’t expect this, I would never expect this, never, but it’s so—it’s so beautiful, Armie, it’s, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before.” His hands moved rhythmically through his hair, over his face, down the back of his neck, fingertips barely dipping down past the collar of his polo shirt. And all the while, the voice, just louder than a whisper now: “Beautiful, Mr. Hammer, do you hear me? Beautiful, and so...so _brave._ ”

Armie surfaces a little at that. _Brave._ He laughs, short and bitter. “Medal of honor candidate, that’s me.” He waits for Timmy to laugh.

Instead the gentle hands in his hair become firm, press with palms all across the curve of his skull, the rigid fingertips curled behind. Timmy grips the sides of his head with surprising strength and draws his face towards himself, all but smothering him in the lean expanse of his belly. There shouldn’t be enough flesh there to smother anyone but there is hidden strength in the grip of those hands and for a moment he can’t get free to take a breath. _What the—?_ Armie tries to flail but his arms are tied. He rears backwards, stumbles even on his knees, almost falls, but Timmy’s hands, though rough, are firm around his head, and steady him.

“Timmy, I—”

“Quiet.” His voice isn’t loud and isn’t sharp, but Armie can hear the steel in it anyway, as he holds Armie’s head, holds it away from his body. Armie clamps his mouth shut on his protests without having to think about it. Obedient, but his easy serenity is shattered, and he stares up at Timmy’s face, shocked and bewildered.

Timmy meets his gaze; his eyes soften, and his hands return to Armie’s hair. Soothing. “Shh,” he says. His hands start to move, as before, and moment by moment Armie’s tension eases again. He lets that soft touch travel over his hair, feels those fingers curl around his ears and down his neck. He rolls his head this way and that, inviting the touch, relishing it.

As before, too, the words start up, low and continuous. Words of praise, as before, and Armie fights the discomfort that rises again as the flow of words washes over him. “...soft, you know? I like touching you softly. I know I climbed all over you during filming but some of my favorite moments were when I could just touch your hair, like this, stroke it. You love it, you always go all floppy when I do it…”

At the word _floppy_ Armie rouses again, a little, to protest or mock, but Timmy’s hands tighten warningly against his scalp and he subsides. He’s probably right anyway, Armie does love this. He wonders how long he’ll get to enjoy it.

Timmy hasn’t paused. “It’s that softness in you. You know, you’re this gorgeous, huge man, massive shoulders, thighs—you’ve got amazing legs. Everything about you says big and strong, but when you put your hands on someone you love, it’s just so... _soft._ I love that, I love what you’re teaching your kids about strength...seeing you playing with Harper or cradling Ford. Gentle and soft—you’re just a really, really great dad—”

...and this is just too much, really, because he’s not a great dad, he’s not, he travels too much and gets distracted and half the time it’s only discipline and determination that keeps him focused on what he’s supposed to be doing when he’s with them and for sure he’s going to mess them up, it’s inevitable, he has no idea what he’s doing, he can’t just listen to this coming out of Timmy’s mouth when he’s so, so wrong...so he laughs, again, bitterly, and says, “Tell that to their therapist in twenty years,” and suddenly he’s being muffled, hard, against Timmy’s belly, and the hands in his hair almost hurt.

The tight grip on his hair, the shock of it after those soft words, is enough to jolt Armie back out of his reverie, but it slams the brakes on his spiral of self-loathing, too. When Timmy releases him, he looks up into his face with a wary kind of wonder.

“I said _shh_ ,” Timmy says. He smiles faintly. “Do we need a ball gag after all?” Armie’s eyes widen before he remembers that Timmy didn’t know this was coming and can’t possibly have one in his pocket. “No, we don’t, but you need to be quiet, all right? The only thing you’re allowed to say is _thank you_. Or your safeword, obviously. Okay? _Thank you_ , or else you’re silent. No talking, no laughing, no, like, _scoffing_. Nothing.”

At the word _scoffing_ , Armie wants to scoff, but he manages to keep it in, barely. It’s an odd kind of dominance, but Timmy does things his own way. Armie finds he wants to do as he’s told.

“Nod if you understand,” Timmy says, and Armie does.

Before Armie can sink down again, Timmy, hands still wound through Armie’s hair, says, loud and artless, “I love you.”

And because Armie is still near the surface, and not thinking, he huffs and says, “Yeah. I know.” (It’s true. The difference between having Timmy largely to himself in Italy and accompanying him on a publicity tour is that in Crema he could pretend that what he and Timmy had was special, that Timmy would only ever turn the full strength of his focus on Armie. Back in the world, Timmy has so many friends, _so_ many friends. And he touches them all, and smiles at them, and they wrap their arms around him, and he soaks it in, basks in it, just like he did with Armie, and if everyone he knows gets that kind of love, then what can it really mean?) “You love everyone.”

His words are still coming out and he realizes his mistake in time to brace for the pull of his hair. This time Timmy rucks up his own shirt so that Armie’s face is muffled in his bare skin, and that is a different kind of surprise altogether. The hands are still harsh, though. _Of course they fucking are_ , he berates himself. _You had one goddamn job._

Timmy, apparently, agrees. “Your instructions were pretty clear. Is it too much? Do you want me to stop?”

“N—” _Don’t speak, for Christ’s sake!_ Armie shuts his mouth and shakes his head vigorously instead. To make his point, he twists his head so that his hair slides between Timmy’s fingers and his cheek nestles into the smooth skin of his stomach. He can smell Timmy’s body. He can smell the heat from his groin. He hasn’t been this close to Timmy in over a year, and never when they were alone in the room. He takes a long, deep breath. No, he does not want him to stop.

“Ooh, caught yourself! Well done.” Timmy allows Armie to stay nuzzled into his belly, allows him to direct the movement of his hand with the tilt of his head. “This isn’t easy for you, I know it isn’t. You’ve got the idea now, though.” _Stroke, pet._ A gentle tug, a light scratch along his nape, a brush of fingers along his collar. _Oh_ , yes, he’d like those fingers to dip down, to touch some skin not open to the air. He arches his neck and raises his body a little, chasing the touch, but Timmy withdraws back to his cheekbones and temples, and Armie subsides.

Timmy is silent for a long while, but his hands are never still. They do drop down to his shoulders, but over his clothes. Soothing, not distracting. Solid. Wherever Timmy can reach without crouching, while Armie kneels there, leaning now against Timmy’s stomach. The fingers stroke and knead and wander.

Armie drifts.

After an age, the sound of Timmy’s voice begins to reach him again, and he realizes that he must have started up talking a little while ago. _Probably only a few seconds ago,_ he thinks vaguely, but he can’t be sure. “...but I don’t have to tell you that. You know what theater kids are like. We’ll say we love each other but if we never see each other again, we won’t care. It’s not, not real. But with you…” Timmy’s hands settle on his shoulder as he looks for his words. “It’s because of you. They’re shallow, trying to act deep. You’re,” and he laughs, as if he’s finally found the right words. “You try to act shallow, but you’re deep.”

 _Clear water,_ thinks Armie, almost drowsing. “Clear water,” Timmy says. “For anyone to see, but no one looks.”

 _You do._ But Armie is beyond speech now, doesn’t even open his mouth.

A moment later, Armie’s peace shatters when Timmy says, “Anyone would love you.”

 _No._ But he doesn’t speak, can’t speak, _mustn’t_ speak, despite the sudden tension in his body, so Timmy carries on. “Anyone would be so privileged to have you in their life, in any way. A colleague, a friend, a partner, a lover…”

 _Which one are you,_ Armie pleads desperately in his head, eyes squeezed shut and pressed against the flat plane of Timmy’s belly. _Which one are you._

“You’re just so...good, you know? You’re strong, you’re kind.” His words punctuated by strong hands massaging his shoulders, holding him near. Oblivious to his distress.

“Loving.”

_No._

“Selfless.”

_No, oh, no._

“Generous.”

_Goddamn it, no._

“And brave.”

And that’s it, Armie can’t, simply can’t, can’t kneel here and hear this. The _No_ is wrenched from his throat, despite his restriction. It comes out in a groan that is not quite a sob. “I’m not _._ I’m not. Not enough. No. _”_

He waits for the censure, but it doesn’t come. Timmy holds his hands still, and says, “Yes, enough. All those things, and yes, enough.”

And it’s the tiredness or the scene or the ropes or being on his knees, but really it’s Timmy, _Timmy,_ and he hasn’t asked for this but somehow Timmy’s given him what he needed anyway, and Armie—great, tall, strong Armie—begins to weep. It starts slowly, the tears squeezing their way out of his tightly closed eyes, but at the soft touch on his hair, they come faster, and he opens his mouth and eases his eyes and lets them come. They fall and fall, and his breaths become hiccups become sobs, become howls, and Armie Hammer kneels there, bound in ropes at Timmy’s feet, and lets them come.

And as he weeps, Timmy holds him and his hands don’t waver. He murmurs, nonsense at first, and then, as Armie calms, “ _Enough_. You are brave enough and kind enough and loving enough. Enough, Armie. More than most, and more than enough. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

The tears are still falling, streaming down his face, but at the steady rhythm of Timmy’s repeated _l love you_ Armie’s breath begins to steady. At last he manages one long, shuddering inhale, and lets it out. Something else flies out of his body with that last breath. “ _You are enough_ ,” Timmy says again. “You are more than enough.”

And Armie rests his wet cheek in Timmy’s palm and doesn’t think of a joke to make. “Thank you,” he says.

***

There is no way for Armie to know how much time passes before Timmy cups his face in his hands, bends down, and kisses him once, chastely, on the mouth. “You did so well,” he says.

It takes Armie longer than it should to figure out that Timmy is searching for the end of the rope, for the slack that will let him release Armie and end the scene. He watches dumbly for several long seconds, wanting to ask, but his eyes won’t quite focus and while his breath is steady, he can’t quite make the words come.

Timmy sees. “Yeah, I think that’s enough for now. You’ve done so, so well. You were everything I could have imagined.”

Armie manages a breath. “All I did was cry,” he says, but it’s different, somehow, to the self-mocking tone he usually takes. The wonderment hasn’t worn off yet. He squints at Timmy.

Timmy beams at him. “Yeah.” He’s never met anyone who can beam like Timmy, and he only does it in moments of genuine joy. Maybe he really has done all right.

When Timmy finds the end of the rope and begins to unwind the loops that bind him, he only breathes, leaning his head against Timmy’s hip or side. More than once, he catches himself smiling.

They’re done, but they’re not done. Timmy—did he do some reading?—knows that Armie still needs him. When the rope is off, he pulls him upright by the shoulders and guides him over to the sofa. He checks his arms, his wrists, his fingers. When he sits down beside him, Armie is ready to protest the bit of distance he leaves between their bodies, but then Timmy reaches around him and draws him close; the distance is so that Armie can lean over far enough to rest his head on Timmy’s shoulder.

Armie floats. It’s warm here, and soft, even without any extra flesh. He turns his head into Timmy’s chest and breathes there, eyes closed, surrounded by Timmy’s scent. He gets a flash of what he must look like and thinks distantly that he wouldn’t normally be at ease with this, being held against the chest of another, younger, smaller man, but the thought barely emerges before he dismisses it. This is so much more than how it looks. Timmy is so much more than how he looks.

 _Me too,_ Armie thinks faintly. _I’m more than how I look, too._ There is no irony in the thought; he’s too peaceful.

He feels Timmy’s cheek rest gently on his head, feels him turn to kiss his hair, feels the heat of his breath. Timmy kisses him lightly, again, and again, and suddenly Armie’s peace becomes something...warmer. He stretches his neck, turns, twists, until he finds Timmy’s mouth with his own.

A kiss. Chaste. Again. Armie’s mouth moves languidly at first, but he presses up and the movement becomes more insistent. Timmy is—he thinks—responding, not escalating, but it’s not enough, it’s not _enough_ , he raises his body and turns his head, oh, yes, now he can—

“Hey, hey, Armie, hold on, just…” He has his head pulled back, pressed back toward the wall, evading. “Wait, all right? Wait.”

But Armie doesn’t want to wait, moves in again, tries to follow Timmy’s dodges. “Kiss me,” he whispers. Begs. “Kiss me.”

Timmy does. Timmy is not denying Armie anything he needs.

Their mouths meet, and it’s a tidal wave. The force of it fills Armie’s body, floods his limbs, forcing out the drowsy languor and replacing it with a driving need. On his knees before Timmy with his face pressed into his warm belly he didn’t feel anything like this but now, freed, he is overwhelmed. All of the emotion he felt, all the truth Timmy has drawn from him, is transformed all at once into desperate, desperate need. How many times will Timmy take his control away today?

_He didn’t take it, you gave it to him._

He gives it again, willingly. _Oh,_ willingly, yes, but more like a, a compulsion, like an _imperative_ , now that Timmy is kissing him, he _has_ to do this. He turns fully now, raising his body all the way, braces a hand on the back of the sofa, holds himself up. _Kiss._ He’s towering over Timmy now, but he’s still not in charge, he can only tower because Timmy allows it, Timmy draws back and opens up the space, inviting Armie up and over and in.

Every cell of him needs this. It’s not just his skin, it’s the muscles of his mouth and face, of his jaw, of his brows, all of him, he is digging, dredging, burrowing into this kiss, he want to open it up and climb inside. The rhythm of it, the force of it, drives him forward, and Timmy lets him, shifts so that his body is lying on the sofa and Armie is braced over him, and soon the yearning squeezing through the muscles of his face spreads to his entire body, so that he flattens himself against the whole length of Timmy, pressing his chest, where his heart is beating wildly, down, down, down against Timmy’s. There shouldn’t be this space between them, a place where Timmy’s heart is but Armie’s isn’t, if he burrows down deeper, a little deeper, maybe he can join them, his heart to Timmy’s, heart of hearts.

While he presses with his chest, desperate in his heart, the rest of him is pressing too, oh, _oh_ , it’s no longer his chest pushing, it’s his hips, he needs, he needs, _oh_ , when did he get hard? He’s so hard, oh, if he rounds his back like _this_ , oh god, Timmy’s hard too, he likes this, he feels it too, _oh_ , two hard lengths align and he can’t, he can’t stop this, it’s, it’s, oh god, it’s _Timmy_ , and he wants to give him _everything_.

“Armie,” Timmy whispers, and Armie freezes. “Armie, I—I want this, believe me, I always do, you know that, but this isn’t—this isn’t an order, Armie, the scene is over, this isn’t a condition, you don’t have to—”

“ _Want to._ ” This is almost too much, this desire. Armie thinks he still might panic. “Want to, Timmy, please. _I_ need this, me. I need— _please._ ” He’s never asked for this before, but he can’t do without it now.

“All right, babe, all right. All right.” And Timmy tangles his fingers in Armie’s hair and draws him back down.

There’s nothing holding him back now, he relinquishes the last scraps of his control, gladly, so gladly. He scoops one hand behind Timmy’s head, spans his fingers there, uses the purchase to deepen the kiss. With his other arm, he reaches down and around, slides his hand along Timmy’s lean back, grips him under his ass, stretching his fingers wide. He holds Timmy’s long precious body flush against him, as close as he can, pulling him hard towards him with his two hands, one drawing his mouth up and open, the other bringing their hips together and _oh, fuck_ , this is, this is—he thrusts now, thrusts and thrusts, and Timmy’s hands tighten in his hair, _oh_ , it’s _so good_ , it’s so, it’s so, he’s _right there_ , he’d better, “Oh Christ, I’m—” And with a massive clench of every muscle, he comes, fully dressed, shudder after shudder wracking his body, still pressing, arching, straining, for any way to get closer to this man, even as he spends against him.

He collapses, his forehead leaning hard on Timmy’s, sucking in one shaky breath after another. Clinging to coherence, he pulls his hand from under Timmy and slides it over his hip, coming to rest at the waistband of his sweats. His voice is barely as rasp. “Let, lemme…” and Timmy nods against his head, so he slides his hand under and stretches the fabric down so that Timmy’s hard prick is in his hand. He squeezes once and Timmy hisses with pleasure, bucks up into his grip, bucks again. _Turns out he is twenty-one after all,_ Armie thinks blearily, and gives him another squeeze.

It is suddenly hugely important to finish this for Timmy, to feel him come, pressed along his body. There’s no time to admire the way Timmy’s slender cock lies in Armie’s palm, the flex and squish of it between his fingers, though it’s gorgeous, _gorgeous_ , he hopes he’ll remember what it looks like when his brain starts functioning again, but for now it’s short, quick pulls, hand squeezed tight, because Timmy’s head is thrown back and his mouth is open and his body arches like a bow and— _yes,_ he comes, hard, spurting over Armie’s hand and onto his own flat stomach.

One more gentle squeeze and Armie lays Timmy’s soft cock back onto his belly, and raises his hand to his face. Holding Timmy’s eyes, he presses his lips to his own hand, in the stretch between thumb and forefinger that is dripping with come, and sucks. The taste of it fills his mouth, fills his mind. The sigh he gives as he lets his body rest, at last, against Timmy, is long and tired and joyful.

Timmy, gentle and wise and beloved, holds him close.

***

Later they will rise together, Armie laughing, sheepish but not ashamed, and pulling Timmy up by the hands. They won’t talk much, but they will smile, and walk together to the bathroom. Even the roomy (for a hotel) shower is a little small for two grown men when one of them is Armie, so they will take turns, with Timmy sitting on top of the toilet while Armie gets cleaned up. When Timmy is done, Armie will offer him some clean clothes, but Timmy will say his own are fine. “It’s not like I came in my pants or anything,” he’ll say.

They will sit together, and Armie will call down to room service for burgers and beer, and they'll eat at the coffee table, Timmy on the sofa and Armie on the floor beside him, long legs stretched out. Every so often his head will rest on Timmy’s knee, and Timmy will nudge his head with his elbow or pass a forearm over his hair. There will be food at the banquet, but they have learned that they will be kept talking the whole night, either by reporters wanting their soundbite or by other actors, directors, producers, all of whom want a piece of what they’re living right now.

By unspoken agreement, they won’t want to be apart, even for a few minutes. When it’s time to get ready, Armie will dress for the evening’s engagement and then follow Timmy back across to his room, and wait patiently while he chooses his socks and arranges his hair so that it looks disarranged to his liking.

By the time the car comes to take them to the banquet hall, they will have emerged enough from their cocoon to be able to speak, and joke, and occasionally look away from one another. All through the evening, they will never be very far apart, and they will orbit back to one another often, and touch, perhaps even without making eye contact.

Timmy will ask him, “Do you think it’s too much? Do you think anyone will notice?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Armie will say. “This is what we’ve always said we had. It won’t look any different to them.”

“It isn’t any different,” Timmy will say, smiling at him. “This is what we’ve always had.”

Armie will smile at him then, and not make a joke, because it’s true, and now he knows. “Thank you,” he’ll say.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A huge THANK YOU to shamelessmash who read through this and basically squeed me through all of my hesitations. Merci, ma belle.
> 
> However, I only asked her for encouragement, not actual editing, so if you spot any typos, please let me know!


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